Bad Bitch (9 page)

“Ha. No.” She dropped her gaze. “They were like your parents. Well, I take that back, it sounds like the only thing they had in common with your parents was lack of formal education. They were disappointed in me for leaving the small town where I’m from. They never wanted me to go to school, to come to the city. None of it. I was just supposed to stay in their tiny, upstate town and do . . . Well, I don’t know what. Just work at the local grocery store or not at all, I guess. They thought my ambition was a sin. My sister, Eudora, called me the Whore of Babylon the last time we spoke.” She laughed, but there was no smile in it, no warmth.

She was always so tough, like a fortified wall that no one could pierce. When I heard true sadness in her voice, it shocked me, broke off a piece of my heart.

“They don’t deserve you.” Of that I was sure.

“They don’t see it that way.” She shook her head.

“Then they’re fucking morons. You can feel free to send them a postcard with that quote on it. I’ll sign it.”

“I know. I don’t need them.” She said it with finality, but there was a tremor in her voice.

I didn’t like the deep well of hurt in her. I pulled her up to me, the feeling of her breasts pressing against me making my cock come back to life. I took her lips, gently this time. She answered and cupped my jaw as we tasted each other. She was sweet, like wine and something else I couldn’t put my finger on. She drew away for air. I let her settle back against my chest, though I wanted to take her again, to feel her clenching me tight as a fist. I settled for her delicious mouth.

“You taste like heaven.”

“Why do you call me angel?” she murmured against my chest.

“Seems to fit you.”

“I don’t think anyone else in this town, or on this planet, for that matter, would agree with that statement.” She laughed.

“That’s because they don’t know you like I do.”

She tried to pull away, but I held her tightly to me. She gave up and relaxed again. “You don’t know me, Lincoln. You just met me. We’ve fucked a couple of times.”

“It’s more than that, angel. Don’t kid yourself.”

I meant it. Evan was right that we’d only just met. But I’d never felt such a need for any woman in my life. I’d had plenty, but not one like her. I didn’t think there was another one like her anywhere. Fucking badass and ballsy, but the way she’d spoken about her family showed where her walls came from, at least partly. Her revelations were the real her, not the harsh persona she projected. She wasn’t just the “bad bitch” that terrorized prosecutors and AUSAs; she was much, much more.

“I googled what your tattoo says, you know.”

“Oh, did you now? Been thinking about me quite a bit, haven’t you?”

She made a
pfft
noise of denial. “Fortune favors the bold?”

“Yep.”

“It’s kind of perfect, really. If nothing else, you certainly are bold.” She stretched before cuddling against me.

I nuzzled into her hair. “Are you going to make me breakfast in the morning?”

“Are you going to drop all charges against Castille in the morning?”

I laughed. “So, breakfast is a no?”

She nodded against me. “A definite no.”

She let out a long breath, winding down for the night. I ran my fingers through her hair, sorting the fine strands. They were so soft, just a whisper against my skin.

“Lincoln?”

“Yes?”

“Why did you charge him here instead of in New Orleans?”

Still at work even after what we’d just done. I couldn’t stop the smile that turned my lips.
Bad bitch.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I kissed her forehead. “Go to sleep, angel.”

Evan

The next week was a wall of work. I was glad to be busy, to think about things other than Lincoln—his backstory, his smile, his hard . . . body.

It was a struggle to push him out of my mind. He seemed to have taken up residence, like a cat I’d fed that I’d never get rid of. Worst part was, I wanted him to stay, even though I was embarrassed that I’d told him about my family. Opening up to people wasn’t exactly my forte. Doing it with him was unexpected and, in hindsight, stupid. I needed to keep my guard up. Castille’s case was big money for the firm and me, and that money would only continue rolling in if I got him acquitted of the federal charges and then over onto the civil and state cases.

He was the proverbial cash cow, but I had to actually do the work before I could get any milk. I was going to beat Lincoln. Fucking him wasn’t conducive to that end. I had to cut him off. He was a distraction, a gorgeous, scarred, tatted distraction with a troubled past.

The week was a blur of calls, hearings, and meetings. My clients expected the same high level of service at all times. Whether their question was about how to set aside some of their estate for their mistress, how much they could safely cheat on their taxes, or how to get their brat children out of an underage drinking citation, they all called me. Being a lawyer, after all, is a service industry.

Vinnie and Drew worked ungodly hours on Castille’s case, trying to organize the chaos of the shyster’s files. While they were occupied, the younger associates were rudderless, in need of direction but too afraid to ask me for it. I set meetings with each of them, listening to their sophomoric questions and legal “reasoning.” It’s funny how you forget how much you actually know until a total idiot plays Twenty Questions with you. The week was an exhausting parade of inane queries and horrible writing.

Late on Thursday afternoon, I decided to visit the associates’ bullpen and see how Vinnie and Drew were coming. Vinnie was haggard, tieless, and looked like he could use a shower and a bed. His office was a disaster: boxes and boxes of documents, papers covered with sticky notes and scribbles posted on the walls, discarded takeout piled in his trash. The sun was shining through his window, but you wouldn’t know it. His blinds were almost completely drawn. I sat down in the cramped space, admiring the piles of paper on his desk.

“Didn’t we go paperless two years ago?” I asked.

“We did, but only when the photographer came for the firm photos. As soon as his ass got on the elevator, the paper came right back out.” He dropped his head onto his desk with a thunk.

“Where’s Drew?”

“USA’s Office.” His reply was muffled.

“Getting their docs?”

“Yep. From what Jonesy told me, they have double what we have.” Another thunk on his desk. “If it’s in the same state as this junk, we’re fucked. Nothing is in order. Castille didn’t keep records, he kept a minefield of shit that I’ve been stepping in all fucking weekend.”

“Do I need to put some more associates on this one? Split your bonus with them?”

He picked his head up, glaring at me with bloodshot eyes. “No.”

“Good. We get the docs from his hard drives yet?”

“No, they’re due back tomorrow.” He rubbed a hand over his face and yawned.

I rose, and smoothed my already-smooth skirt. “I expect you to stay on schedule with my reports. I want profit-and-loss statements tomorrow afternoon.”

“There are over a hundred victims, boss. I’m going to need more time.” The bone-deep weariness in his voice almost made me feel sorry for him.

“Tomorrow. No excuses.” Nothing says ‘I care for you’ like tough love.

Vinnie stared at my neck. I couldn’t tell if he was noticing Lincoln’s love bites or thinking of throttling me. Either way, it didn’t matter. He would get the work done. He always did.

I turned and strode back to my office. I could hear him muttering choice words, some of which I’d taught him myself.

Jena was at her desk, looking scared as usual. “Ms. Pallida, Mr. Jones called and wants to meet for dinner tonight at Sal’s if you’re available.”

“I’m not.” I wasn’t sure it was a good idea for me to cross paths with anyone from the U.S. Attorney’s Office until I was better prepared with Castille. The sheer enormity of his case was beginning to worry me. That and the New York City indictment instead of the more logical New Orleans. The venue issue kept haunting me.

“He said it was urgent and it would be worth your while.”

She followed me into my office. I sat down, sinking into my leather chair, and gave her an acid look. “You work for Jonesy now?”

She studied her cheap shoes. I paid her better than some knockoff Tory Burch kitten heels.
Ugh.

“I’m just relaying what he said.”

“He didn’t give any more hints? Just some crap about it being worth my while?”

Those shoes must have really been something special, the way she kept looking at them instead of me.

“No, ma’am.”

I supposed I could have dinner with him. Lincoln’s reticence to tell me why he’d indicted Castille in New York was bugging me. I needed to know what was cooking in that head of his. My Friday demand was already pushing Vin to the breaking point, so no help there. Maybe Jonesy could give me what I wanted without me going all gooshy like I did with Lincoln.

“Set it. Have a car pick me up at whatever time.”

“Eight. I’ll make sure it’s done. Also, you had another call while you were with Vinnie. It was—”

I waved her away. “I’ll get to it in the morning. Remind me first thing. Do the same for any more calls that come in. I already have plenty to do.” I eyed the stack of associate briefs that were stacked up in my in-box to review. “Go ahead and bring me a fresh box of red pens.”

After working for two straight hours on that pile of garbage—interspersed with rare points of actual legal intelligence—I had a more healthy respect for the parts Vin and Drew played in the firm. I also had a mind to fire a couple more associates based solely on their misuse of “your” and “you’re.”

Jena buzzed on my intercom. “Ms. Pallida. Your car is here.”

I dropped my pen and dumped several of the briefs in my out-box, hopefully never to see them again. I checked myself in my mirror and freshened my lipstick before going downstairs. More flies with honey.

Sal’s was an Italian restaurant at the edge of Tribeca. It wasn’t a tourist trap, thank God, and served some real-deal cuisine. I’d helped the owner get up and running a few years back. His father had been a client of mine after he and his family were run out of Little Italy for certain old-school business practices against other restaurants owned by rival families.

Bats and knives weren’t the way to get things done anymore. Now, attorneys and well-timed New York Department of Revenue investigations into competitors were the way to go. After the dustup settled down, Sal’s son, Tony, decided to move the family business to greener pastures. Tribeca was perfect—tons of rich people looking for good food within walking distance. Tony and his sisters fit right in, though Sal had his misgivings at first. Now they’d settled in, serving up a more posh version of Little Italy and good food. The whole thing was a front for other enterprises that I steered clear of, but the food was legitimately delicious.

“Ms. Pallida!” Trish, one of Tony’s many sisters, greeted me. “We were going to send out a search party.”

I let her embrace me, her dark curly hair tickling my nose. “I know. It’s been too long. Work got in the way.”

She pulled back and waggled her finger. “Don’t let it happen again.”

I looked around the familiar dining room. It was tastefully decorated with a penchant for the Italian history portrayed in the movies. Large stylized paintings of country life in Italy lined the walls—vineyards and fields, ornate architecture, friendly villas.

The restaurant was filled to the brim, conversations humming like electricity in the air. So many rich people all in one place made my mouth water. A fool and his money are soon parted, after all, and the room was no doubt full of fools. “Business still booming, I see.”

“It certainly is. Pop will be thrilled to see you. Tony, too. Your regular table?” She stepped toward the sea of dinner-goers.

“No, well, I don’t think so. I’m meeting someone. Tall guy, blond hair.”

“The blue-eyed ladykiller? You lucky gal. He’s at a table toward the back. I can move you both to your table, if you’d like. Something more private, romantic.”

I shook my head. “It’s not like that, Trish. And his table is fine.”

“Fair game?” she asked and started smoothing her frizzy curls around her pretty face.

I thought of Lincoln, the way his deep voice rumbled dark commands. “Yes, Jonesy is fair game.”

Trish gave me a wink and led me to the table. Jonesy stood as I approached, then waited for me to be seated before settling along with me. Manners from the guy who’d tried to grope me in public?

“What can I get for you?”

“You have any more of that Malbec from last time?”

“We do. I won’t tell Pop you’re drinking that. He might go . . .” She whirled her finger around her ear in the universal symbol for “crazy.” “You know how he gets about certain wines that aren’t from Italy, or at least Europe. I have to stock the Malbec and a few others on the down low.”

I laughed. She was right. Sal might cut me, literally, if he discovered my tastes. “Just keep it under wraps for me. And I’ll have whatever Sal is cooking up on the side tonight.”

“Last I saw he was working on a chicken parm but with a béchamel sauce.”

My mouth watered. Sal’s cooking was his second-best talent, right behind busting skulls. “Sounds good.”

“I’ll have the same.” Jonesy passed his menu to Trish, who stared at him unabashedly.

She kicked my foot.

“Oh. Oh, Jonesy this is Trish Deluca. Her father is Sal, who owns the place.”

Trish held her hand out, and Jonesy took it with a light shake. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Same here, sugar. I’ll be back with your drinks.” She gave him a long look before she moved away. With any luck, Trish and Jonesy would be between the sheets right after her shift was over tonight.

“I knew you liked the place. I didn’t know you were so well acquainted with everyone,” Jonesy said, studying me. “It’s almost as if they were your friends.”

I shrugged. For some reason, the implication that I had absolutely zero friends—though pretty much true—rankled. “They’re good people. Sal’s a client of mine.”

“Oh, business. I see.” He nodded as if it had all become clear.

The implication that I only liked the Delucas because they were clients rankled even more.

“We genuinely like each other.” It sounded defensive. I didn’t care.

“But they pay you, right?” he asked.

“Are you trying to goad me into a fight? I know you said I only have two settings. Sorry, but fight is the only one you’ll be getting tonight.”

He ran a hand through his hair, about to respond, but Trish reappeared with our wineglasses, sans bottle. There would be no South American wine label to give us away. When she’d gone again, he resumed.

“I didn’t come to fight. This is about Lincoln.”

“What about him?” I perked up. Any information was good information as far as he was concerned.

“You shouldn’t trust him.”

“The sky is blue, the sun is hot, and water is wet.” I took a large swallow of the Malbec. Delicious. It had the rich flavor of blackberry and some other notes I wasn’t sophisticated enough to recognize.

“Let me back up.”

“Okay,” I agreed.

“First, I want to apologize for the things I said to Lincoln the other night. I’m sure he’s already told you about them.”

I looked at him, expression blank. I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about, but I wanted him to continue, so I gave a slight nod.

“I didn’t mean any of it. I was just drunk.” He loosened his tie a bit.

Now I really wanted to know what he’d said about me, but I needed to let him talk it out, to get to the big reveal that was supposedly worth my while.

I shrugged. “I’ve said plenty of terrible things when I’ve been drunk.”

He let out a pent-up breath. “Thanks, Evan. Really, thank you. I was worried you were going to take my head off.”

Maybe later, once I found out what he’d said about me.

“So was that what was so important?” I asked.

“No. Lincoln. He’s dangerous. I told you that from day one, but you didn’t listen.”

“What about him is so dangerous?”

Jonesy’s jealousy seemed to be verging on paranoid.

Trish strutted up and set our plates before us. It was indeed a version of chicken parm with a rich cream sauce instead of the usual red. It smelled hot and heavenly. Sal’s cooking was singing tonight.

I took a taste. The chicken melted in my mouth, the breading giving a perfect bite and the sauce a creamy complement. I hoped whatever Jonesy had to tell me would give me even more to chew on.

“He’s working you.”

“Yes.” I agreed with his assessment. But our “working” arrangement had been beneficial so far, very much so. I wanted to put the flashes of Lincoln out of my mind. The way his chest flexed when he manhandled me, the dark tones of his voice when he told me what I could and couldn’t have, the way that fortune had truly favored him in line with the Latin motto enshrined on his body.

Jonesy snapped his fingers and brought me out of my reverie. “Evan!”

“Jesus, what?”

“I’m serious, Evan. He’s
really
working you. He knows things about you. He knows your client list front to back. He knows your history. He’s made a study of you. He’s like a stalker or something. I knew he was interested in you from the first day at the bar. But there was a lot more. I went through his files today when he was at lunch. He has an entire dossier on you and your clients. Their connections and your cases with them.”

He took a bite. “Damn, this is good.”

I swallowed hard. I knew Lincoln would have done a thorough study of any opponent, but this seemed pretty far-reaching. I played nonchalant.